Therapy for the Archaeologist
“Ok,” my red-haired therapist said, “Let’s dig a little deeper. How did you feel after your daughter died?”
“The emotional pain was so intense that I thought I would die. In fact, my heart started physically hurting. My doctor did a lot of tests but in the end it proved to be anxiety,” I said, tears welling up in my eyes.
“It’s not uncommon for parents who’ve lost children to go through physical symptoms. In reality, you had a broken heart, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I sobbed. “It was so broken. It just laid there in pieces, until I came to see you.” I looked at her through the distortion that the tears in my eyes created.
“And over the time we spent together you picked up those pieces and put them together. I don’t know if I’ve used the analogy before but you were like an archaeologist who finds the remnants of a very precious vase. He picks up the pieces up carefully in his hands and over time glues it back together until it is whole again. It was hard work then to fit together and mend your heart but you did do it.
“It’s true, Angie,” I sniffed. “ I did put things back together, but it’s been ten years and lately I feel as though the glue holding everything has come apart, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, you are archaeologist of your life. If something precious like your heart has fallen apart into pieces then you need to pick those pieces up carefully in your hands and very tenderly brush off any dust or dirt. You need to spend time and focus on putting things back together. It sounds as though this would be a good time to focus on you and treat yourself with care and gentleness.”
I nodded and looked down at the remnants of the shredded wet Kleenex in my hand. “When I was going through the worst of it I used to get up in the night so I could be all alone and write. I would write for hours, about what was happening in my life, how I felt about it and what I was going to do about it. Those moments were a commitment to take care of myself and they helped me sort things out.”
“So it sounds like maybe you need to do some writing again then?”
I sat quietly and thought for some time before I spoke. “Yes. I have been writing just not that kind of writing. I’m working on a lot of projects, some short stories I want to submit to magazines and I’m even labouring on two novels; but I think the problem is that I’ve stopped writing things about me, just FOR me. I need to write for me. I like the analogy you used—it’s like I should take a shovel and dig down into the dirt to find those parts of myself. Writing sorts out the pieces and helps me make sense of them and put them back together.”
“That’s a really great observation and I think something a lot of people could learn from.” Angie looked at me and smiled. “Our time is up for today, would you like to book an appointment for next week?”
“Let’s make it a month,” I said, my tears starting to dry. “I’ve got a lot of sorting and putting things together to do.”
“Ok, well the session today will be $500.00; will that be cheque or credit card?”
“Hmmmm…would you take a couple of old beaten up relics that I found while cleaning out my garage? It’s mostly some of my husband’s stuff from his school years and according to him it’s pretty precious.”
“Ha,ha” laughed Angie. “Just remember you may be the archaeologist but I’m the therapist. How did you want to pay?”
By Salynne Wild
Blog: WildeTide
Writing Matters 
